


Chivalry

by sailorgreywolf



Series: Rarepair Week 2018 - PortEng [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: First Meeting, M/M, Young Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-08
Updated: 2018-09-08
Packaged: 2019-07-08 11:39:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15929672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sailorgreywolf/pseuds/sailorgreywolf
Summary: This is the first in a series written for rarepair week 2018. The theme of this one is the first meeting. England leaves on crusade and finds a new friend.





	Chivalry

England was excited that he was leaving his own island on an adventure. And it wasn’t just an adventure; it was a crusade to free Christians from the grips of a Muslim occupation, or so his king had said. 

His king had explained that it was a sacred calling and it would do England great honor to go with them, even though he would not go all the way to the Holy Land. There was a fight against the Muslims closer, so his king had said, and they would aid with that first. 

That was why England was on a ship crossing the channel, though some of the knight had objected. He knew why they did not want him in battle, even though the understanding irritated him. He was still very young, only beginning to grow out of the body of a child. But, old enough, he thought, to be trusted to handle himself well enough. He had learned how to use a sword and ride and shoot a bow long ago; his brothers had been good teachers.

But, he had never traveled before, not far away at least. The only other countries he had met were his brothers, and France. His brothers were men with their own affairs to deal with, which meant they disregarded him.

France was a strange mocking peacock, and England was at a loss of what to think of such a man. But, the Frenchman’s words came back to him in quiet moments, the jibes at his poor French, his lack of fashion, and his messy hair. 

England was glad to be sailing away in this moment to somewhere new; especially after the vicious years of civil war he had endured. Everything was calming now, but he still longed to see somewhere different, somewhere where the sun shone brightly through the year, somewhere unlike his foggy island.

He pulled his cloak around himself as the cold wind from the channel blew around him. His mind was far away from this cold wet shore, full of the words of poets and troubadours. He was going to help another country to free themselves from an occupying force. He would arrive in a suit of new armor like a knight from a poet’s story. 

He thought, perhaps he would meet the person he was destined to love like the knights in the poems. Those were the stories he loved best, the knight who loved so truly that he would do anything his lady asked. It was so romantic to think that love like that could exist. 

He smiled to himself, even though the wind was cold and he hardly knew what would come. Nothing could dampen his spirits now.

The march from the landing to the city was beautiful, and England found it hard not to stare at the beautiful landscape. It seemed that so much was green here, and trees heavy with fruit. It was so different and captivating. It was how he would imagine paradise to look.

When they approached the city that was under siege, which he was told was called Lisbon, he noticed the beautiful cliffs above the bluest ocean he had ever seen. England couldn’t help but compare them to his own white cliffs at Dover.

 It was so wonderful to be here that he smiled as he leaned back in his saddle. That earned him a glare from the knight riding next to him. How could someone focus only on fighting when there was beauty all around? But, he was mortified by the idea that he was being a wide-eyed child during an important campaign.

It would give his king a reason to make him stay in London next time there was the opportunity. So, to show that he was old enough and strong enough to be here, England straightened up in his saddle and put on what he thought was a stern face. But, beneath it, he was still basking in the beauty of his new place. 

They eventually came upon the army they were supposed to help. It was arrayed in a sprawl of tents with colorful flags flying. It was more familiar to England to see war so close, after the years he had spent seeing the civil war in his own home. 

They were met by a contingent of knights, dressed in gleaming armor. England’s commander halted their party and said, “We are here to assist in the siege.”

The knight across from them nodded curtly  and said, in French, “We are happy to accept King Stephen’s help.” 

England understood French, though he knew he spoke it with a heavy accent. All of his kings and their courts spoke it, so he had no choice but to learn. 

His attention wandered from the knight who was speaking to the young man next to him. He appeared to be the same age as England, or close enough.He had smiling eyes, and a strong olive undertone to his skin. His hair fell in brown waves to the nape of his neck; the glint of the sun off of it was enchanting. 

England supposed that this must be Portugal. The other country caught him staring and smiled. And he felt his cheeks warming, and he hoped that it was just the effect of the bright sun on his face.

 He was just a little bumpkin; France always said so. There was no reason for a boy with beautiful eyes should be smiling at him like that. Perhaps it was only because he had come as aid in an important moment. He decided that the reason could not be more complicated than gratitude

Once his knights had set up camp, England took off his armor. A siege did not require him to be on guard at every moment. So, he could take off his armor and strip down to his linen shirt. He had a woolen tunic, but it seemed foolish for him to have in a land this warm.

Instead, he pulled on another tunic of embroidered linen. It was not fine, but it was a forest green that he thought matched his eyes. He was still thinking of the way that his new ally had smiled at him, and it made him want to appear fashionable for once.

When he stepped out of his tent, he noticed that there was a messenger standing just outside. Not certain what to expect, England turned to the man. Before he could question anything, the man spoke, “Portugal would like to invite you to dinner.” 

England felt himself smiling before he remembered that it was neither polite nor fashionable to do so. He answered quickly, “I will gladly accept.” 

He could feel excitement rising at the idea that he could have a friend. The messenger beckoned him to follow, and he did. They wove through the encampment, until they reached a particularly large tent. 

The man stepped aside and England took it as a sign to proceed. He stepped inside of the tent. Portugal was standing there, waiting for him. It took England a moment to take in the fact that Portugal had changed his clothing as well. He was now wearing a red silk tunic that reached to his knees. He had a belt of green silk slung around his waist.

It was strange to England, because he had never seen anything like it. But, he thought, he was often behind on fashion.  And the other did look dashing, like a prince from some foreign storybook. 

Portugal strode towards him and said, “You accepted! I am glad.” 

England found himself suddenly struck dumb. He had not thought of what he would say when he got here, only that he wanted the company. Without anything in mind, he resorted to speaking what he thought. He said, “I was hoping that we could be friends. My name is Arthur.” 

He thought that he should not be so forward, but he could not help it. He did not want to call each other by their titles all night; it would be so tiring. He would prefer that Portugal would call him by his human name.

Portugal smiled as he took one step closer and said, “That is my hope too. My name is Filipe, though I think that you say Phillip in your language. ”

With that, he turned and walked to a table that England had failed to notice. It was odd to him as well, because it was far lower than he was used to and there were no chairs. Instead, there was a rug covered in plush stuffed pillows.

Portugal sat on the floor amongst them like it was the most natural thing to do. England tried to hide his confusion. Why would someone sit on the floor to eat? 

He dare not question it, because it might just be a European custom, and asking would expose him as a ignorant boy. Instead, he sat in the nest of pillows on the other side, still tentative about this whole setting. 

Portugal apparently caught sight of his confusion, because he asked, “You are not used to dining like this, are you?”

England felt an unseemly blush mounting his cheeks, though there was no judgment or scorn in the other’s tone. He looked down as he tried to answer, “I have never done it before. Is this how people dine in Europe?”

He thought that asking was the best option, since he could not pretend he understood. Portugal replied, “I do not know. I have not met many of them. I have only lived with my brother and Al-Andalus for so long.” 

England leaned forward, excited to grasp this thread of similarity between them. He said, the words spilling clumsily over each other in his haste, “Then you’re like me! I have had no one but my brothers.” 

He thought that he saw his own happy excitement mirrored in Portugal’s tanned face. The young man took a small fish from one of the many bowls in front of him and took a bite from it, pensively chewed and then said, “Then I suppose we both have a lot to learn.”

He chewed for another moment, while England eyed the food on the table carefully. He didn’t recognize most of it; it was so different from what grew in his home. But, it would be rude not to take anything. He took a piece of flat bread, and took an experimental bite. It was good, though very different than the white bread he was sometimes treated to.

Portugal continued, apparently unperturbed that his guest was eyeing the food with uncertainty, “I wish you could have met Antonio. He is my brother, and I think you would like him. He is very serious and ambitious, but he has a good heart. But, he is busy liberating his own lands.”

England swallowed his bread quickly and said, “I would like to meet him some day.” He already liked Portugal from the little time they had spent together, so he could only imagine that his brother would be a possible friend too. He said, “I’m not sure you would like mine. They are all headstrong and stubborn, and very independent. I still have no idea how our mother managed all of us.”

He laughed to himself at the idea of it. He thought of his oldest brother with his blazing red hair, who resembled their mother so much, and how he must have demanded so much attention. 

Portugal finished the fish and placed the remaining head and spine on a plate to his side. Then, he took a handful of olives and began to eat them one at a time. He said, “I imagine she was a strong woman. I know she gave my father a lot of trouble.” 

England froze. He had no idea that their families had ever met before, or that they had had a relationship. He searched his memories to attempt to figure out who Portugal’s father could be. 

He failed to come up with anything, so he asked, “Who was he?”

 He could have sworn he saw the other’s expression darken. But, Portugal continued to speak, his tone betrayed only a little of the emotion below the surface, “I thought you would have already guessed. I do have the misfortune of looking like him. He was Rome.” 

England took a moment to process this information. He knew little about Rome except what his mother had occasionally said about him. But from all the things she had said one came back to him clearly, and he foolishly let it slip, “My mother said that he was a cruel, lying man.”

England was able to stop himself before he added that his mother had told him to never trust Rome or any of his heirs. His mother had fought Rome tooth and nail; that much he knew. But it would be wrong to share it.

To his surprise, Portugal smiled and said, “Then she saw him for who he was. If I could have chosen any other father, I would have. I am illegitimate, you see, so I have none of his wealth or his power, but all of his shame. I only saw him a few times before he left for Byzantium with his legitimate heir.  People say he disappeared, but that is a lie. He chose to leave everything behind instead of facing the consequences of what he had done.”

Though his smile seemed to want to convey that this was a light subject, England could hear real pain beneath all of it. He scrambled to find another subject, one that was truly light. 

In panic, he said, “What do you like?” Internally, he kicked himself for such a clumsy question. But, Portugal let out a low breath, like he was relieved to leave the subject of his father.

He replied, “I like books, especially ones about heroes and adventures. Al-Andalus has a beautiful library of Roman texts.”

England felt a real smile lift up the corners of his mouth. He had spent so many days alone with books while two cousins fought for his throne. But, even before that, he had loved the stories the poets told of knights and their great adventures. 

In this answer, he saw a kindred spirt who might share his love of epic tales. He said, excited again, “I love stories!” 

In his excitement, he thought of all the ones he knew by heart. He sometimes had the traveling poets repeat them to him more than once so he could remember all of the details. He had never liked the idea that he could not hold onto the story once the poet had moved on. So, he had made a habit of remembering all that he could so that he could write it down later. He had a collection now, but he could certainly bring one to mind easily. 

Portugal smiled at him indulgently and said, as England had hoped, “Tell me one. I have read the Roman mythologies so many times, and I want to hear what your heroes are like.” 

Without any further prompting, England started to tell one of his favorites. It was about a knight who loved his lady from a distance. But, when she was kidnapped by a dishonorable knight, the good knight traveled for days to find her. Along the way, he was met with trials of his honors and his commitment. In a castle where he stopped during his quest, another lady offered him her hand, but he refused. 

When he reached that point in the story, Portugal interrupted him and said, “Did he refuse the offer because his heart belonged to another?” 

He had reclined on the pillows and listened patiently as England spoke, with a look of intrigue on his clever face. England hadn’t looked closely at him while he was telling the story, but the question made him glance over. The sight sent a pleasant warmth across his cheeks against. 

He was more than happy to explain what he found to be the most beautiful theme of the stories. He said, “Yes. That is what really shows love. Love that is constant and loyal is the truest.”

Portugal responded, “And do you think that is true for friendships too?” 

England didn’t need to think for even a moment. He knew that if something truly important, then it would be easy to be loyal to it. But, he was curious. He said, “Yes, why do you ask?” 

Portugal leaned forward across the table and extended his hand. England understood, implicitly, that he was supposed to clasp the other’s hand. He did so, though he did not entirely understand the purpose.

 Portugal answered the question, “Will you be my friend and be constant and loyal?” England met his new ally’s eyes, and it all suddenly felt very important and somber. He nodded slowly as he said, “I will be.”

It felt, in the moment, like a vow he could never break. And it meant more than just the next morning or the rest of the war against the Moors. Even if centuries passed, he should keep this one on his honor. And he intended to do exactly that.

Like Lancelot, he would be true.


End file.
